


My Jolly Sailor Bold

by bucklesomeswashswan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CS AU, F/M, siren au, siren!emma au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 12:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9234941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucklesomeswashswan/pseuds/bucklesomeswashswan
Summary: Emma, lost cursed princess of Misthaven, finds herself aboard the Jolly Roger a ship captained by the mysterious Captain Hook. Could he be the one person who can help her find her son that was taken to Neverland? And perhaps together they can both put their pasts to rest. (Siren Emma AU)





	1. Part 1

It was her hair he saw first; a flash of gold upon the dark still sea of a windless night. 

“Man overboard,” he shouted from the helm. “Port side, cast a line!”

He made his way down to where the men had managed to pull her aboard. She had fallen limply onto the deck, waterlogged. The men gathered to see shifted restlessly around her, murmuring humming between them.

“Move,” he commanded pushing his way through the group. When he saw her he understood. She was wearing nothing but a thin shift made nearly transparent by the water. And it did nothing to hide her feminine form gracefully laid upon his deck. Bloody hell.

“Get water,” he said and two of the crew moved off. He reached out to feel the weak flutter of a pulse in her neck, and he quickly shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around her. Her skin was cool to the touch. As he pulled the thick leather around her he brushed the golden hair from her face and his movements faltered. She was gorgeous, all delicate features and smooth skin.

She jerked in his arms, coughing and gasping. He held her upright as she choked out seawater.

“That’s it, love,” he said rubbing her back a little. “Get it out.”

She flinched at the sound of his voice turning to look up at him with wide eyes. Her eyes are a deep enchanting green, as deep as the sea herself, and hiding just as many secrets he guessed.

“Who are you?” she asked him pulling away and scrambling back on the deck and pulling his jacket tighter around herself. Her eyes moved over his shoulder to take in the crowd standing over them.

“Killian Jones,” he told her, “though I’m sure I need little introduction.” He smirked holding out his arms in a mock bow and saw her eyes move to his hook. “Welcome aboard the Jolly Roger, lass.”

She glanced around herself again something like renewed interest in her eyes. The look of someone who had just had a brilliant idea, or discovered an unexpected stroke of luck. And he wondered what it was about waking alone in the custody of pirates that would garner such a reaction. Stranger still, what was a beautiful woman like her doing this far out to sea?

“Captain,” a voice said behind him and he half turned to grab the offered canteen.

“Water,” he said holding it out to her.

She looked at the canteen warily before slowly reaching out and bringing it to her lips taking a long drink.

“We can talk in my cabin,” he said when she lowered the canteen coughing a little.

“No,” she said shaking her head, “I couldn’t-”

“You can share my bunk,” one of the men chimed in hopefully.

“No!” Killian said standing and turning to his crew. “She is our guest and I will have her treated as a lady. Anyone who has a problem with that order can walk the plank.”

He stared them down until he was sure his words were understood. A guest aboard the ship was his responsibility. The code he lived by demanded that he see her safely to wherever she needed to go, unharmed. But she certainly hadn’t made his task easy, showing up beautiful and nearly naked before a crew bonded most by the depravity they committed and three weeks from the last time they had made port.

“Follow me,” he told her offering a hand and pulling her up. He led her through the crew to his quarters. When the door shut between them and his crew she seemed to relax slightly.

She moved into the room running her finger lightly across the top of the table in the middle of the room. He stood and watched her for a moment before there was a knock on the door behind him. The sound made her jump, her head turning to look at the door.

He opened the door a fraction to find the cook on the other side. In his hands was a crust of bread, cheese and a bottle of wine. Killian glanced over his shoulder at the girl who had gone back to exploring the room. Her eyes drawn to the shelves of books.

“Thank you,” he said reaching out to take the offered items.

“Cap’n” the man said a warning in his voice as he looked over at her. “You talked to her yet?”

Killian shifted blocking the man’s view of their guest. “Aye,” he said carefully.

The cook scuffed a foot against the planks, his fingers rubbing together nervously. “The others are sayin’ she’s a mermaid,” he said at last. His eyes lifted to Killian’s and he could see the worry there.

Killian smiled at the idea. “I don’t think so,” he assured the man.

“Pulled from the water this far out from land, and they say she’s pretty, too pretty. Tha’s reason to worry, Cap’n, mermaids are bad omens.”

“The only thing I have to worry about is your cooking, mate,” he told him with a smirk. “And that is plenty enough.”

The cook chuckled. “Aye, Cap’n, s’pose it is.”

He gave a small nod before he turned and walked back toward the belly of the ship and the galley. At this hour he was likely about to start on morning rations for the men on first shift.

Killian eased the door shut and turned back to his guest. The words of the cook repeated in his head: a mermaid. He had encountered mermaids in Neverland. They were beautiful, catty, jealous, and vain creatures. They soaked up compliments and were quick to betray. And while he was sure she was not a mermaid he couldn’t help but think there was something different about her, some secret she was hiding.

She watched as he set the food down on the table. He had spent enough nights hungry to recognize the way she eyed the bread and cheese.

“It’s not much,” he told her pushing the food toward her. “We don’t usually have company.”

She coughed a little on the dry bread, her hand coming to rest against her lips. It was difficult not to notice the motion, or ignore the delicate curve of her neck. He shook himself as he poured her some of the wine.

She took the cup gladly and drank a sip, the liquid making her press the back of her hand to her mouth with another small splutter.

“It might be a bit stronger than what you’re used to,” he warned too late.

“A little,” she allowed the words breathy. 

He chuckled and her own laugh joined his; the sound something light and warm.

“You haven’t told me your name,” he said and he watched her smile fade, the flicker of fear crossing her expression. Another wall she was hiding behind.

“Emma,” she said. And he believed it was the truth despite whatever wariness she had.

Emma. It was not a common name. And there was something about it that seemed to ring a bell in his memory. He looked again with interest at her, what treasure had he stumbled upon?

Not long after her small meal Emma seemed to slouch. The exhaustion of her rescue and whatever misfortune had made it necessary seemed to weigh on her. She blinked heavily again as she leaned back in the chair.

“You can sleep here tonight, lass,” he told her gesturing toward the bunk against the wall. Her eyes followed coming to rest on the bed.

“What about you?” she asked almost as if she were afraid he would suggest they share the small space.

“A good captain hardly sleeps,” he told her with a smile, one he hoped would calm her. 

Emma stood and then hesitated. “I…” she paused before trying again. “Captain-”

“Killian,” he corrected automatically and her eyes flashed up to meet his.

“My clothes are wet, and I should return your coat.”

He couldn’t help the way his eyes dropped to the press of her collarbone clearly visible through the opening in his thick coat and wet fabric. The image of her soaked on deck coming unbidden to his mind.

He moved to the chest with his clothes and she accepted the soft shirt he offered her and waved off his apology about having only trousers and no skirts for her. 

“I’ll just give you a moment,” he said moving toward the door. “I should return to my crew.”

“Wait,” she said quickly before looking away almost shyly. “Please could you stay.”

He stared at the way she worked the fabric of his clothes between her fingers, and the way the drying ends of her hair lay against his coat. She bit her bottom lip, trapping it between her teeth and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to kiss her. To feel the brush of his lips against hers, to feel those teeth pull at him.

He coughed, shaking himself. “If you would prefer that,” he replied his stomach clenching when she slid his jacket off, shedding that barrier between them.

He swallowed thickly at the gentle of curve of her body beneath the thin dress. Enchanting as she was he turned sharply away as she reached to remove the wet fabric. Gods above. He was a pirate not a saint, she must have known she was playing with fire.

When he heard the bunk creak he chanced a glance across the room. She was kneeling on the bed pulling back the sheets, the wide neck of his shirt falling down over one of her shoulders leaving an expanse of the skin of her back on display. She slid beneath the blankets, her hair flowing over the pillow as she settled with her back to him. There was something oddly trusting in that.

Stiffly he made his way back to the table. She had asked him to stay and he could give her that. And so he occupied himself with one of the charts spread across the wood taking a reckoning until he was sure she was asleep, the sound of her breathing even. And then he stood and made his way to the books he kept. His fingers tracing down the shelves until he found the one he was looking for.

Noble Families of the Seven Realms. He paged quickly past the names of his homeland. He had spent long nights in the embrace of rum staring at the page titled ‘Jones’. A page that did not bear his name, his father had seen to that. Disgracing their family and earning them all exile. A legacy he had upheld himself. A black flag and the ring of cannons all he had to his name now.

At last he found the families of Misthaven. The first page dedicated to the royal family. A long line of proud rulers he traced down to bottom of the page. His finger resting over the last name. Emma. 

Years ago in the corner of a port tavern in Misthaven he had been told the tale of the demise of the princess, Princess Emma. He is almost sure that was the name. She had been cursed. A deal gone bad between a sorcerer and her parents. An arrow to her heart from cupid himself, and love had run through her like poison through veins.

Love like that was a weapon, a weapon of the gods. And it had changed her, burning all the good of love from her and leaving only the darker side of such emotion: longing, jealousy, and obsession. Some believed it had even transformed her into a siren.

He blew out a breath at the thought. Sirens were nasty creatures. Practically demons, they used their looks and charms to get whatever they wanted from a man. Most were not turned into sirens from a Cupid directly. It was commonly thought they were the remains of women who had used love spells, trying to force a connection with someone. But all magic has a price and when love was false it never lasted. And when those spells wore off there was nothing left but emptiness and bitterness, and they were cursed to only ever have others fall in love with the illusion of their beauty and never who they truly were.

And he had pulled her from the water and was keeping her on his ship. He glanced at her sleeping figure on his bed, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She was certainly pretty enough to hold up to the stories. Loathe as he was to cast her as some magical creature like the superstitious lot of his crew, there was something ethereal about her. If the girl was that Emma, cursed Princess of Misthaven, bloody hell, perhaps he was a fool. Not only would she be royalty but an enchantress. A dangerous enchantress armed with the wicked taste of love. 

Slowly the sky outside the windows faded to shades of blue from the black embrace of night. With a glance at Emma he pulled his sword around his hips securing the buckle. Unfortunately there were things he needed to attend to. Least of which being whatever rumors were spreading through the crew. He had spent the whole night in his cabin with her. No doubt at least half of them thought he had allowed her to show him her true gratitude and the other half would probably think she had killed him. 

On deck the sky was a misty white, the clouds tinged with red on the horizon. He could almost taste a storm on the air. It was the kind of weather that made sailors quiet, the ominous feel of some menace ahead.

“Mr. Smee,” he greeted his first mate at the helm.

“Captain,” Smee replied before running down a quick report on the ship and the crew. He trailed off as he got to the matter of the woman in his cabin.

“We’ll take her to Misthaven,” he said seeing her name at the root of the ornate family tree from his book in his mind. Perhaps other men might have held her for a ransom. She was a princess which alone would set a man handsomely in gold. But he also knew the price a siren could bring in certain markets. 

She was lucky when she washed onto his deck. He would never sell another person like that. He knew all too well what that life was like. 

“Aye, Captain,” Smee said in response to his direction and Killian left him to the wheel and moved off.

The men eyed him as he passed. Many with looks of wonder or wariness and he thought his estimation of the rumors below decks was about right. They needn’t have worried, he was not so easily swayed by a woman.

When he returned to his cabin Emma was awake and sitting at the table looking over the map laid out there. Her finger was following the line he drawn last night, tracing from their position toward the ports of Misthaven.

“Good morning,” he said and she jumped at the sound of his voice, turning in the chair to look at him.

“Hook,” she said using a name he had come to be known as in many realms, one he had not told her. And while he had assumed she knew his reputation it was still a small surprise to hear her use it instinctually.

“Are my calculations correct?” he asked her and watched a blush spread over her cheeks.

Instead of answering the question in his words she pointed to all the lines and currents drawn onto the map. A few places had notes written in his hand. Some notes on shoals to avoid, others the names of dock workers that would turn a blind eye for few gold pieces.

“Have you really been to so many places?” she asked him.

“I sail where I please,” he answered moving to sit in the seat facing her, the map between them.

“What is the farthest you have gone?” she asked her eyes moving over the names on the map.

“Name a place and I’ll tell you if I’ve been there,” he said with a smirk.

She pursed her lips considering the map again.

“Agrabah,” she suggested.

He nodded. “The markets smell of cinnamon and spices I can’t name. And there are streets that sparkle like they’ve been paved with gold.”

Her eyes flicked between his as though trying to decide if he was lying.

“Arendelle,” she challenged him.

“Are you going alphabetically?” he chuckled. “Yes, I’ve been to Arendelle, it’s quite pretty when the bloody place isn’t frozen over.”

“I hear you go to Neverland,” she told him surprising him.

He straightened up leaning forward. He could tell this was what she had been waiting for. The reason they were truly having this conversation. “And where would you hear that?”

She shrugged demurely, “You hear so many stories.”

“What would a nice lass like yourself want in Neverland?” he asked her.

She looked over his face as though trying to decide what to say. He kept his expression neutral as he waited for her answer.

In the end she just shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Aye,” he nodded, “It’s a land of demons and lies. Nothing more.”

She fidgeted uncomfortably at his words as though they stung and they sat in silence for a moment as he tried to understand her reaction.

“What is it about that place that so fascinates you?” he asked her.

“It’s said it’s filled with whatever you can imagine,” she said.

“It’s ruled by the imagination of a mad boy,” he corrected her darkly.

“So you have been!” she pressed looking triumphant.

He sighed heavily. “Perhaps.”

“Did you ever see the ones they call the lost boys?” she asked a little urgency slipping into her voice. A slip in her careful mask.

“Aye,” he said slowly watching her carefully.

“I’ve heard they are boys taken from this world and others. Taken to Neverland by a shadow,” she told him as though reciting the words dutifully from some text. But he knew there were no written accounts of Neverland. The words she said could only have been from the whispers traded in dark corners of the world about such wonders.

“You seem to hear quite a lot of things, Emma,” he said.

“You would be amazed what I can get someone to tell me,” she said with a smile as though this was a private joke. But he knew the punchline, he knew what a siren could compel from those they ensnared.

He looked her up and down, his eyes running over her lazy as a summer breeze. And he took in the way she looked at him, wide innocent eyes, a damsel in distress. The way she leaned toward him so that with only a slight tip of his eyes he could see down her collar to the swell of her breasts. He didn’t doubt such a thing would work on many.

“Would I?” he mused in response.

And in that moment he could see the realization cross her eyes. The moment she knew he knew her secret. And he pressed his advantage.

“Who is he?” he demanded.

“What?” she asked pulling back slightly, defensive, her guard pulling up.

“The lost boy. A brother?” he paused his eyes searching her. “No. Your son, perhaps?”

“What?” she gulped the sound a little choked.

“Emma, please don’t insult me.”

They stared each other down for a long moment. A silent battle of wills. And at last she let out a sigh almost crumbling before him. 

“Henry,” she said quietly. “His name is Henry.”

“When was he taken?” 

She looked away her teeth clenching. “Ten years ago.”

He ran his fingers over his jaw considering her situation. A son lost to the jungle of the timeless waste. He couldn’t fault her for her interest. The determination to get back to her son. 

And suddenly he was gripped with an unsettling thought. What were the odds of a woman alone in the water so far from shore? What were the odds she would be rescued by him? How lucky to happen across the one man who could possibly help with the task of getting to Neverland. Unless it wasn’t luck at all.

“You need a portal to get to Neverland,” he told her carefully.

“I know,” she said.

He frowned. “They’re not easy to come by.”

Her eyes flashed as though she thought he found her stupid. “I know. I have been trying for a long time.”

He stood and moved to look out at the dark water through the window at the back of his quarters. This was the place his brother had died after a trip to that place. It was not a place he had any desire to return to.

“I don’t have one,” he told her truthfully, the sound almost sad. He couldn’t help her.

He heard her move behind him. “But you found a way before,” she said.

“Aye, and I would advise against any similar journey but I suspect, motivated as you are,” he paused to glance at her, “You won’t listen to me.”

“I need to find him. He was taken when he was just a baby.”

He shook his head slowly moving back to stand behind his chair his fingers wrapping around the back. “Ten years growing up with the lost boys, you won’t recognize him.”

“He’s my son,” she said fiercely.

He met her eyes. “Not anymore,” he said coldly.

“Please,” she pleaded growing desperate.

“I can’t help you,” he told her firmly. “I have my own problems.”

“I can help,” she said at once jumping at the opportunity.

He studied her for a moment, the determination in her eyes. The edge behind her beauty. And he thought at last he was seeing the real Emma.

“How is that?” he asked her not sure why he was entertaining this. An offer from a siren was a deadly gift.

“It’s Rumplestiltskin isn’t it?” she guessed shocking him.

“What?” 

“Your problem is Rumplestiltskin,” she said and it wasn’t a question this time. “I can help you.”

He laughed darkly. “What do you know of Rumplestiltskin,” he muttered.

She bristled at his dismissal. “He is the one who cursed my family,” she told him her expression hard.

“He was supposed to protect my family from the Evil Queen. But my parents were told a prophecy saying he would betray them. So they had him trapped in an enchanted cell. He became enraged and told my parents they would regret their decision not to trust him. That he would be sure they lost their kingdom and their only child. He promised to make certain no one would trust me, you can’t rule a kingdom if no one believes in you.

“My parents told me it happened in the middle of the night weeks later, they heard me screaming. When they found me there was an arrow buried in my chest and I was bleeding out in my nursery. My mother was hysterical. It was years before they started to notice changes, things I could do. Eventually someone figured out what had happened, and I ran.”

There was silence in the cabin for several moments, and they let the creaking ship around them say her piece.

“He killed the woman I loved,” Hook said at last. “My Milah, and I have spent centuries trying to find a way to end him.”

“He’s the Dark One,” Emma said. “He collects magical objects and I’d wager there is one that can open a portal. If I help you kill him I can find my way to Neverland.”

He couldn’t deny there was some logic to her plan. There was, however, a rather large chance of death as well. And while he had long ago made peace with the idea that this revenge might claim his life, staring into her eyes he wondered if she was similarly prepared.

“You keep a lot of secrets, Emma,” he said walking slowly around to sit on the edge of the table just in front of her.

“How do I know I can trust you?” he asked softly and she blinked thrown by his words and his closeness.

“Same way I know I can trust you,” she said holding his gaze, “You don’t.”

It was a strange deal, but he had certainly made worse ones. This close to her he swore he could the flecks of amber in her green eyes, and the delicate dent in her chin. For a moment the gently rocking ship and the shouts of the crew on deck faded until it was only them in the whole world.

“I think we should shake on it,” she said and her voice is a little thin as if she too could feel the thrum in the air between them.

“I have a better idea,” he murmured and he leaned down toward her, his hand coming up to hold her cheek.

Her eyes fluttered closed as he neared, her breath warm against his skin. He paused just a hairsbreadth from her his heart slamming in his chest. She moved, a tilt of her chin and her lips brushed his. They were softer than he had imagined, and she rose up beneath him moving to stand in between his knees.

He tilted his head deepening the kiss feeling her hands run up his body until one curled into his dark hair. A small pull at his scalp sent a jolt through him. His mouth opened to hers and she met his every unspoken command. She tasted faintly like rum and he couldn’t get enough. This was the taste of forbidden fruit and he would gladly have been damned for it. When they broke apart their breaths mixed between them.

“Bloody hell,” he panted his forehead resting against hers, “That was-“

“Perhaps we shouldn’t do that again,” she said breathlessly her hand falling from him and it felt like losing something vital. Something he couldn’t live without.

“Aye,” he agreed softly leaning back into her, his nose brushing hers.

And when he kissed her again she did not protest. This kiss was more insistent than the last and he slid from the table closer to her. The soft press of her against him intoxicating, and she breathed a soft moan into his mouth. The sound cut through him like a knife and he spun pressing her back into the table. Reaching down his hand dug into the small of her back and slid to pull her thigh over his hip. 

He wasn’t sure if she even knew she doing it as her hips rocked against his. A gentle roll that ground against him like wicked pleasure. He groaned at the sensation. His every nerve alight and he wanted her, wanted to know her down to her soul. He wanted her to strip away all that he was and unmake him. He wanted to give everything to her. Every part of himself, every last beat of his heart and all the air from his lungs.

She pulled back with a gasp. Her hands upon his chest pushed him away. He crashed back to himself, his heart stuttering and his knees hardly able to hold him upright. 

“I can’t,” she said breathing quickly as though fighting to gain control of herself, her chest heaving under his shirt. “We can’t.”

He moved away from her looking down curiously at his tingling fingers and took a deep breath to try to calm his mind and body. What the hell was that? He had hardly sworn off women in reverence to Milah, but never since her death had he felt something so strong. Never had he forgotten himself so completely and been left so breathless.

Perhaps there was some truth to the myth of sirens. He looked over at her, the way she still struggling for breath braced against the table, her hand pressed to her heart. When he imagined sirens taking their prey he never imagined them looking just as wrecked. 

“Are you alright?” he asked her.

She looked at him as though he had just grown a second head. “Am I alright? Fuck, Killian, I could have killed you,” she choked, her words twisted with guilt.

The words surprised him as did the naked panic in her eyes. He clenched his hand that was still stinging like the prick of thousands of needles. It was the same feeling as working life back into frostbitten fingers after long watches out on the frozen northern waters.

“We can’t do that again,” she told him her tone pleading as though she expected the threat of death to not be enough to deter him.

He moved to lean against his bunk keeping some distance between them. “Is it always like that?” he asked her curious about the power of her curse.

“No.” She shook her head as she sank back into the chair she had been in before her arms hugging herself. “No, it’s never been like that. I couldn’t control it.”

She looked more than exhausted, she looked like had been drained. A shell of the woman, cored by the magic than ran through her. He wondered what a burden like that must be like.

What a pair they made, both left empty by love. Burned out and left to walk as ghosts through life. It was something he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

“I’m sorry,” he said but she shook her head in response as if rejecting his need to apologize. 

But it had been recklessly arrogant to kiss her like that. And still part of him didn’t regret it. He had never considered the possibility of moving on from Milah until that moment. It was a powerful thing to be set free and it was a callous twist of fate for him to find such possibility in someone he could never have. 

He wracked his mind to think if he had ever heard of a way to end the curse of a siren. But in all the places he had been he had never heard of such a thing. There was no magic that he knew of strong enough to reverse such a curse.

Emma’s expression was miserable as she sat curled in on herself. He wanted to console her, but he had no idea what to say. What did you say to someone who had, by her own confession, nearly killed him just a few minutes before?

“I’ll set a course that will take us towards the Dark One’s castle,” he told her getting to his feet. “Maybe there we can find what we’re looking for.”

Walking out on deck he took the wheel into his hand turning fifteen degrees west. He was heading toward the Dark One and all he had wanted and yet he couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t finally found something better than revenge to sustain him.


	2. Part 2

Emma gripped the rail as another wave tilted the deck of the ship. Her stomach seemed to swell with the boards beneath her feet. She had never been good at traveling by ship and most of her time on ships she would rather forget, for years it was just a way to run farther from the familiar shores of her home.

But this ship was different. The fabled Jolly Roger. She wasn’t sure if it lived up to the stories. The brig was hardly the grand galleons of pirates rumored to sail warmer waters to the south. But still there was something graceful about the way it cut through the waves, lighter than larger vessels. And every surface was polished clean, not a foot of rope or rigging out of place. It displayed a level of diligence she had not seen outside the royal navy. Strange to find it on a pirate ship.

Although, did it not match the same surprising elegance of her captain? The delicate manners she expected in the over-starched members of the court and not the fearsome Captain Hook. 

A thrill went through her at the thought of the captain. The feeling tingling across her spine, as if the memory of their kiss was somehow trapped there deep under her skin. But she didn’t want to think about his lips against hers, the brush of his breath over her cheek, the way his fingers tangled into her hair for just a moment. She didn’t want to think about how she hadn’t wanted it to end, how it had punched through her careful rules and walls. She didn’t want to think about how for an instant she had felt free. 

And she didn’t want to remember when she had felt her power reach out, felt it latch onto him.The way it urged her on, the need to suddenly possess him, to devour him and leave him mindless in her wake. Only the smallest fraction of her sanity had managed to pull her back, tearing herself from him. And she had felt the magic between them shatter, leaving all of her lying out in the open, vulnerable in a way she had never been.

And she’d wanted to hide, shut him out, but all she could do in that moment was curl in on herself and try desperately to keep from crumbling. Her fingers had kept running over her burning skin because after that kiss she would have sworn that she was bleeding out. And yet there had been no visible wounds anywhere. 

And so she had avoided him since, afraid of what she’d see in his eyes, afraid to see any fear in them. But, could she really blame him if he feared her? Feared the power within her. Some part of her hoped he did. It would be safer that way.

She couldn’t tell how long she had been standing at the rail trying to convince herself, and her small breakfast sitting heavily in her stomach, that she was fine. The ocean air was cold enough to bring goosebumps to her exposed skin, but still she stood there, the cold the only thing keeping her from suffocating.

From time to time she caught a glimpse of black from the corner of her eye. She knew it must be him, but she kept her eyes locked only on the horizon. And still the gaze she could feel upon her was like a steady weight. How was it she was so aware of every move he made? How was it that the words he called to his crew went straight through her as surely as if he had whispered them delicately into her ear? How was it the gentle wind was like his fingers tracing over her–

She needed to get away. The need to run screaming through her veins, to escape this feeling, to put some distance between them. But on a ship there was only so far she could go. And she couldn’t run forever. 

And worse she needed him. She needed the strange and fragile truce they’d forged. He was her best chance at getting to Neverland and getting back to Henry. And at some point she had to face him, to face whatever was between them.

Eventually the restlessness overtook her and she slipped away back to the captain’s quarters. It wasn’t a perfect escape, after all this was his cabin, but something told her he wouldn’t follow. With the door closed behind her, she was suddenly surrounded by a peaceful quiet. A moment’s peace from her thoughts that been running wild all day.

Her footsteps thudded hollowly against the floorboards as she walked slowly around the room. Alone, she took the opportunity to take another look at the many things in the room. Each a piece in the complicated web of Killian Jones. She passed by the maps laid out on the table. Most depicted seas and shores she knew nothing about. The stack making her royal education strangely lacking.

But it had been the shelves in the corner that had captured her attention on that first night on the ship. Each shelf was packed with huddled spines of untold books interrupted only by the occasional trinket: a small glass vial of ordinary-looking sand, a stack of coins engraved with the face of king far from here, an intricately detailed silver dragon with jade eyes, a delicate bracelet inset with small red stones, a worn piece piece of rope tied in a complicated knot, three brass buttons, and a small collection of dulled pencils wrapped in a black ribbon. 

She could almost feel the weight of memory attached to each of them but they meant no more to her than the books with titles in languages she didn’t know. It was such an intimate look at his life and still she knew no more about him.

She was about to turn away when one of the books caught her eye, tucked away in the corner. She pulled it carefully from its place and ran her fingers gently over the cover. It was a story her mother had read to her many times when she was young, who knew the captain had a soft spot for fairytales? She curled into one of the chairs in the room and opened the book losing herself in the familiar words, at last the tension easing in her.

-*-

She jerked awake blinking in the dark room. It took a moment for her to comprehend the book sitting open in her lap and realize she must have fallen asleep, moonlight replacing the afternoon sun outside the windows.

From beyond the door of the cabin she could hear a commotion. Shouts and the rumbling of stomping steps on the boards of the deck. They were under attack. The thought ripped through her.

She lurched to her feet her heart pounding as she stared at the door. The urge to hide warred with the unexpected need to be sure the captain was alive. It made her stomach drop heavily to think of him of lying, bleeding, dying among the scattered madness of battle. She tried to remind herself that she wasn’t worried because she cared about him, but just that she couldn’t afford to lose him. And that was absolutely the reason she moved on stumbling feet to the door and wrenched it open.

Whatever destruction and carnage she expected to meet her melted at the scene before her. The deck bathed not in smoke and blood but in the light of flickering lanterns, the soft strains of music from three crew members with various instruments by the mast.

Emma stood frozen as surprise and relief washed over her, her body trying to settle from the adrenaline that had coursed fiercely just a moment ago. Her hand pressing at her racing heart as she took a better look around her.

She couldn’t help flinching as the crew let out a shout when the ragtag trio played a new song. It wasn’t a battlecry, or a call to arms, it was simply an old sea ballad, a song of sailors and love lost. An older heavyset man in an apron leaned against a large barrel handing mugs of drink to the others. And it seemed that already those closest to this were swaying most, their eyes a little glassy in the glowing light.

The tune changed effortlessly again from the sea ballad to an upbeat jig and again many clapped in appreciation, humming or stomping their feet to the rhythm. Finding herself still standing dumbly a step from the door to the captain’s quarters still looking shocked, her jaw dropped indecorously low, she moved to stand aside leaning back against the solid wood of the ship to support she shaking legs. She watched the crew warily, though they had let their guard down enjoying the simple delights of music and revelry she had seen what drink could do to a man. A darker temptress than even the likes of her.

“You know this song?” a voice said from beside her making her jump. She turned to see Hook leaning against the rigging to her left. His face half illuminated, the shadows clinging to the edges of cheekbones and jaw.

“No,” she shook her head slowly, a little thrown by his closeness, the knowledge that moments before she would have run into danger for him. “I’ve never heard this song.”

“It’s from my homeland,” he told her so quietly she thought she might have imagined it because when she glanced over to him he was looking the other way, out at the waves.

She waited for him to continue but he seemed distracted by something out on the dark horizon she couldn’t see. In his silence she turned back to the crew, watching the way some of the crew had joined in some frenzied dance. He’d said it was from his homeland and she wondered how many of these men had once called it home too.

“Why’d you leave?” she asked softly. What had driven him from a place he clearly missed? Was it anything like what had driven her from her own home? Deceit, betrayal, dark magic. Had he also watched the eyes of everyone around him grow cold and frightened? 

She almost wondered if he heard her, but then he blew out a breath his hand moving to scratch at a small spot behind his ear.

“I was in navy.”

She turned toward him more fully a hand coming to rest on her hip. “Not always a pirate then?” she asked cheekily.

He met her eyes for a moment but there was none of the humor in them she had expected. 

“That came after the king murdered my brother.”

The words were icy steel. Final. And she had no idea what to say. 

But she was spared from making any reply as the song changed again, slowing into the gliding phrases of a waltz. With a jolt she realized she knew this song, as if it was a part of her. Each note like a window to the past, to that small girl peeking around corners to the balls in grand rooms of a castle, ladies in glimmering gowns, the beauty of a hundred couples turning together, her parents at the center. She could feel Hook watching her again and she wondered distantly if he could see those same memories in her expression.

“Tell me, Emma,” he said squaring his shoulders to her, “Do you dance?”

There was something in the way he said her name. How long had it been since someone had said it with such gentle care? She couldn’t help but stare at him, lost in the look in his eye, so different from a moment ago. That shred of hope, a sense of hesitancy, a little daring. It tightened something in her chest.

“No,” she said at last with a small shake of her head. 

His eyes gleamed in the flickering light, a smirk lifting the corner of his lips. “Not at all?”

He was goading her. They both knew perfectly well a lady born of her station would have been taught to dance. That she had endless lessons on the etiquette of high tea, and the exact position of each step in the traditional waltz. But here on the deck of a pirate ship she wasn’t sure she knew measure of this dark dance.

“No,” she said again a little more firmly this time. And it was partly just to see what he would do, if he would let her win. Just how far was he willing to toe this blurring line between them?

“Well,” he said, holding out his hand, diving past that very line, “perhaps it has fallen to me then.” She raised an eyebrow to which he rolled his eyes. “It’s no harder than walking, love.”

She stared at the hand outstretched to her for a moment. There was nearly a palpable tug on her, some need to be pulled into his orbit. That same dangerous need that she had succumbed to when she had pulled him into a kiss. Was she reckless enough to welcome such disaster again?

She needed him to get to her son.

She remembered her thought from earlier, none of this would work without him. Her son needed her, and that meant she had to play this game, no matter the consequences.

And it was dangerous game they were playing. But she eased her hand into his, damning the consequences, and a small part of her knew it wasn’t a thought of Henry but the warmth of his answering smile that kept her from changing her mind. 

“There’s a good girl,” he said pulling her hand up to his shoulder before his hand came to rest on her waist steadying her, and still she felt as if a feather could have unbalanced her.

“Just like walking?” she heard herself ask, the barest tremble shaking the words. 

“Aye, the key is to pick a partner who knows what he is doing,” he told her bending down to murmur the words just inch from her ear.

She stumbled, her fingers gripping his thick coat, and she could almost feel the silent laugh that rippled through him. She scowled at him as she straightened. He might have won the first victory, pushing her farther past her walls, but she excelled at the long game. 

She forced herself to let him take the lead, easing into his touch. Her eyes flashed to his as she realized he did, in fact, know what he was doing. His steps as sure as any lord, and still there was something undeniably scoundrel in hand low on her waist and the desire in his eyes.

“Just where does a pirate learn to dance?” she asked him curiously.

“Here and there,” he answered lightly brushing off the question but there was something about the way he said it that spoke of the melancholy mystery that he was. Another secret, another hidden part of him.

It struck her again how alike they were. So hidden behind their own defenses, both intrigued and wary of this thing between them. It was unnerving, a fractured mirror. But whatever dark past his swagger and carefully chosen words were meant to mask, she wondered if her’s was any better.

Again the memories swarmed up around her, constricting her throat making her grip him tighter. Memories of running, of tight spots and damp corners she’d curled in for the night, secrets kept at no small cost. She might have been born to luxury but she cut her teeth on the harder side of life. And finally the fresh memory of rough hands that had pulled her down to the docks of a far off port just days ago. The brutal push into the small skiff. The angry voices of dark men growling at her, hissing her name, making her identity a threat. Princess. Siren. How they had known all her secrets she didn’t know. Secrets that were profitable to certain men, and could get her killed by just as many others. She remembered perfectly the burn of ropes on her wrists, a prisoner again. Helpless to whatever they planned to do with her. And the roiling storm that had been her chance, pushing them off her, and then the embrace of the cold sea as she gone overboard. Lost among the towering waves, pushed under by their might. Everything going black, the burning in her lungs, knowing she was going to die.

“Emma,” Hook’s voice was almost desperate in her ear, his face swimming before hers. And she tried with all her might to surface from the memories trying to drown her. “Emma.”

She shook her head meeting his eyes, trying to remind herself that she had escaped the sea, had awoken, coughing, in his arms. “I’m fine,” she said breathlessly gripping tightly to his lapels. “Just a little dizzy.”

His brows pulled down and she knew he could hear the lie, but again they both seemed to decide to pretend. Just another step in this dance, another turn as they circled each other.

She grounded herself in him, his steady blue gaze, the strength in his arms around her, the gentle way they rocked back and forth. And slowly she relaxed her guard just a little more as she realized for the first time in years she felt safe from the strangulating grip of those dark memories. It was balm to her, a breath of fresh air after being trapped for so long. 

It was a freedom she had only dreamed of, to be able to let someone else take command for just a moment. For just this moment, for just this dance, she would let all her worries quiet.

His hold on her tightened just a little as though he sensed it too and something flickered through his eyes. His mouth opened and closed once as if he couldn’t quite find the words or certainty to voice it.

But she didn’t get the chance to ask him what he’d meant to say as the music slowed to a poignant close and applause broke out around them. Emma jerked back in surprise, she had forgotten about the others. She dropped her hands to her side taking another step back from Hook as his eyes searched her for the answer to his unspoken question. And all she had allowed herself to feel came crashing back to her and she felt suddenly exposed the feeling turning her stomach. And so without giving him a chance and without a backward glance she turned away.


	3. Part 3

The Jolly creaked against the current as the last sails were dropped, the ship pushing into the port. The rooftops of Glowerhaven loomed like shadowy figures from the mist. The small town seemed to collect and create scoundrels, a place to find any kind of vice and malfeasance for a price. It sat tucked in a bay known to be plagued by mermaids and even more ancient creatures of the deep. And it was also conveniently eight miles from the Dark One’s castle, a presence that added to the itching disquiet of it.

Killian hadn’t made port here in years, and yet the sooty taste of dark magic on the air was instantly familiar. 

“No one leaves the ship,” he commanded Smee as the lines were secured. “Keep your wits about you.”

Smee swallowed visibly, his small eyes already moving from the dark water lapping against the hull to the dull lights from the windows across the docks. He knew Smee hated this particular port, an unfortunate incident with a potion some time ago, a common story for those easily distracted in a place like this.

And with that Killian swung down his boots landing heavily on the dock. This was one task he needed to do alone. No doubt Emma wouldn’t be pleased, they had agreed to work together, but he could heed his own advice, to keep his wits, and nothing scattered him quite like she did.

The way she had looked the other night, bathed in lantern light making the gold in her hair shine. The feel of her breath catching against him as they had danced to the Waltz of Misthaven. All the ghosts of her past swirling in her eyes. In that moment he had seen the princess she had born to be, and he saw clearly the woman she was.

His eyes moved warily about him as the very stones in the walls of the buildings seemed to watch him as he passed, a dark weight pressing in all the narrow winding alleys meant to confuse outsiders. The steady rhythm of his steps echoed sometimes sounding as though someone were following him, and several times he had turned hand on the hilt of his sword only to be met with nothing but thin wisps of shadow. 

Finally, when he’d climbed the sloping streets far enough that the docks could no longer be seen or heard, he spotted what he had been looking for. A symbol etched into the stone in the corner of an old building. By the deep ruts in the street this was the oldest quarter of town. The symbol a sign of the creatures who had lived here long before people had settled, long before language, when the dark tales whispered in these streets were not stories but a nightmarish reality. He reached down to pull a thin chain from beneath his shirt the locket swinging heavily in front of him. 

“This better bloody work,” he breathed as he pressed the locket to the symbol. 

And slowly a leaning building came in to view, not suddenly appearing before him, but more like some curtain had been pulled aside to reveal it had been there the whole time. The walls settling unevenly, giving it a ghastly face grimacing down the street at him. A single lantern hung beside the front door glowing with a faintly green flame. A sign to those who knew the port’s deepest secrets. 

With a steadying breath he pushed the heavy oak door open. The inside was somehow more unsettling. Even the faces of the patrons seemed cloaked in a darkness that made their features shift just slightly when you looked away. As if some magic was all that kept their true unearthly nature hidden, a magic that seemed less opaque when sober.

Which might have explained the bustle of small waif-like waiters that were quick to provide you with aromatic firewater that was probably better suited to paint stripping than consumption.

“Captain,” one of the waiters breathed in a rasp, coming to a stop before him. The smell of the drinks on his tray already burning at Killian’s nose. “We were expecting you.”

He only briefly met the waiter’s eyes, determined not to notice the ways they were strange, and dropped a small nod as he took one of the offered glasses. Good manners and such. And he tried to ignore the fact that until a few days ago he had no intentions of coming here, and there was no reason they should have been expecting him.

“Where is she?” Killian asked cooly, he was in no mood to draw this particular visit out.

The waiter cocked his head, eyes on the drink in his hand. Taking the hint Killian tipped the burning liquor past his lips and swapped his empty glass with a fresh one from the tray.

The waiter seemed placated by this. “She’ll find you,” he said simply before moving off again.

“Fairies,” he scoffed lightly as he slid into a table tucked into the shadows, and watched the room. The liquor burning through his blood making the patrons swirl just a little and the flickering of the candles created the illusion of the tables and chairs stretching, tangling, and reforming at the corner of his gaze. But Killian knew enough not to question what the eyes saw, the mind was not meant to understand some things.

“Captain Hook,” a voice said ripping him from his thoughts. 

And before him stood a slight girl, looking no older than 17, but there was a hardness in her eyes that told of years her features did not show. A look similar to the one he often saw within his own mirror. Only a fool would mistake this girl for anything less than dangerous. Perhaps there were only small differences but once noticed they couldn’t be ignored: the bright poison green of her eyes, the subtle sharpness of her canines in her charming smile, the slight point to her ears.

“Lady Bell,” he greeted standing and raking his eyes over her with a smirk. “Always a pleasure.”

Her eyes sparkled catching the double meaning. “Quite.”

She perched daintily on the chair opposite him. She still wore her light hair tied up though it was looser than true fairies wore it, and there were a few braided twists woven into it, not unlike the Lost Ones in Neverland. 

Perhaps neither of them had been able to escape that island completely.

“What business does a pirate have here?” she asked him, her hand cupping her chin. He noticed she didn’t have a drink in sight.

“I thought pirate business was all that happened in this godforsaken town,” he replied.

She laughed the sound like bells, and still there was something razor sharp just beneath the surface. “No, I mean here, Hook.”

He leaned forward making a show of looking around the room before replying. “I need your help, Tink.”

There was no point in beating around the bush. Fairies might love the delicate formalities of negotiation but he was in no mood for carefully crafted half truths and sugar-coated deceit. “I need to go back to Neverland.”

“Go back?” she asked concern and surprise coloring her tone. “What could possibly make you want to go back?”

“It’s important.”

She shook her head holding his gaze as though it might impart more impact to her words. “Nothing is that important.”

It should have been true. It was the vow they had made in that jungle. Getting off that island had justified everything that had happened there. The people they had become in that jungle had been a necessary evil, and all of it was better left in the past. Left in a land locked far beyond the stars in the night sky.

“This is,” he told her.

“No.”

“Tink-”

“I can’t help you, Hook,” she told him firmly cutting him off. She took a deep breath glancing around them before continuing in a hushed whisper, “I don’t have anything that will help you, not this time. No pixie dust, no magic. Nothing. That place ruined me. It ruined us both.”

“I’m not asking you for magic,” he assured her. “I just need the map.”

She looked startled for a moment before she crossed her arms. Her whole demeanor darkening. He knew she remembered the map he had entrusted to her care. It was the only tangible proof of the island they had brought back, one last secret between them.

“That would only be of use to you if you were there. How are you even going to get there? Found a way to fly?” she asked her eyes raking over him in a speculative way.

“I’m going to steal a portal from the Dark One,” he told her.

It had its desired effect; Tinkerbell went white.

“The Dark One?” she hissed.

He nodded slowly. “Believe I’m serious yet?”

“I believe you’re mad.”

“Just like old times then,” he smirked.

“Listen,” she said seriously, “Killian.”

And that got his attention. She never called him by his name. Name’s held magic of their own, something they both knew. He knew well enough she hadn’t always been called Tinkerbell.

“I don’t know what you think you’ll find in that place, but you cannot go back there.”

He took a deep breath, readying himself to show his hand. All in on a terrible hand with nothing left to bluff behind.

“There’s a boy.”

She shook her head. “No. You’re not listening to me.”

“You knew the Lost Boys better than I ever did,” he pressed on.

She crossed her arms anger burning in her eyes as if even the thought of it all was upsetting her. “So?” 

“His name is Henry.”

She stared at him and if he hadn’t spent the better part of century knowing her he was sure he would have missed the look that flashed through her eyes. A spark of memory.

“You know him?”

Her frown deepened. “You’re sure it was Henry?”

He nodded. “What is it? Who is he?”

“If I give you the map will you promise to leave me out of this?” she asked him her expression shuttered.

“Who is the boy?” he asked her, his interest piqued now. Some small part of him sinking at the confirmation the boy was in Neverland. But Tinkerbell had never been afraid of the Lost Boys, she had spent decades in their camp among them. Worked her way to being Pan’s own right hand. So what was it about one particular boy that could have her withdrawing before his eyes. What was it about him that would frighten her? “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Promise me,” she repeated firmly, resolute.

Killian clenched his jaw, reluctant to surrender an important ally, but he had few options. “I just need the map,” he said at last.

She was quiet for a long moment seeming to sort through her options before giving a small nod. An old scrap of parchment appeared on the table between them. No writing visible, not in this realm, but he still recognized it. He had just tucked it into his jacket when she spoke.

“You’re pressing your luck quite a lot to think you can get off that island again.”

He stood meeting her eyes. They were the eyes of a friend, an old confidant, they were the eyes of a cunning fairy and still they held only sadness as they watched him. The look of a sailor leaving port knowing he’ll never return again.

“I know,” he told her.

-*-

Emma scowled at the dress again. He had made sure to stop in one of the shops on his way back to the ship, a reasonable enough excuse for his absence. If she was going to accompany him for this next bit she couldn’t do so in a shirt and trousers. 

“Just wear the dress, love,” he said again trying not to let the frustration slip into his tone. The tip of her eyebrows as she turned to him made him think he’d been less than successful.

“I can do my job just as well like this,” she insisted waving a hand at her current clothes. His eyes followed the motion taking in the way the loose shirt hung on her slight frame, the way his trousers hugged her hips and thighs.

“Aye,” he allowed his mouth suddenly dry. “But the whole realm is not as progressive as you or I, and tonight we all have specific jobs.”

“And mine is to wear the dress?” she challenged her hands on her hips.

He tilted his head raising an eyebrow. They both knew what her job would be. They would use her power to compel answers from the Dark One’s men. Simple recon for information. He saw the moment her eyes darkened, the spark within them dimming in defeat. And with no further argument she gathered up the dress from the table.

“A little privacy,” she said pointedly looking from him to the door.

He bit back a smile as he sketched a bow. “As my lady commands.”

He didn’t wait for a reaction before he turned for the door. “Five minutes,” he called over his shoulder before he closed the door between them.

It turned out five minutes was more like twenty, and he almost going to inquire if she needed help of some kind when she emerged. 

He blinked. It was an effort to keep his jaw from dropping open at the sight of her. Her eyes landed on him as she ran a hand tentatively down her side slipping over the white material gathered in the bodice to the flowing skirt of patchwork fabrics. It was the dress of a peasant and still she looked regal, graceful. Her hair hung in loose curls about her shoulders framing her face and the delicate sweep of her neck, as if she were the cursed swan princess of legend, bound by starlight back into human form, under the curse of a dark magician. He banished the thought as soon as it came, that was not their story, he was no prince meant to save her from her curse.

But as she moved toward him it was her eyes he couldn’t look away from. The green shone brightly rimmed in dark kohl she must have found among his things, the effect startling, breathtaking.

“Up to muster, Captain?” she asked brushing up beside him a twinkle deep in those eyes.

He tried to arrange his thoughts into anything that wouldn’t make him sound like a drooling illiterate or naive youth, but it was as if he were already lost in her enchantment.

Shaking himself he turned toward the docks tearing his gaze from her. “Let’s go,” he muttered gruffly.

A quiet settled over her as they wove through the somber streets their steps stirring the creeping fog that never fully dissipated. He reached out pulling her hand into the crook of his arm rubbing his thumb over her knuckles in reassurance. He knew the effect Glowerhaven could have. She gave him a small smile in return keeping close to his side, her eyes tracing the alleys and corners.

They found a tavern nestled a few blocks from the water. Past the high rent streets and the shinier saloons meant to pluck doubloons from visiting sailors. This smaller, dingier pub was much more likely to have locals and seasoned veterans of this port. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the filmy windows, dirt ground into the worn floorboards, and the dim rooms were lit only by candles on the tables and a several wall sconces by the bar. And still a good number of figures could be just made out from the haze of aromatic smoke from pipes filled with ground betel nut and cloves that the locals favored.

Several pairs of eyes followed them, or more specifically Emma, as they made their way the bar. It made him bristle, an unfamiliar feeling creeping over him.

“What are we doing?” Emma hissed under her breath at him as he flagged down the bartender.

“We’re fitting in,” he replied with a cheerful smile knowing it would irk her. She eyed the mug of ale presented to her warily, but having seen how she had handled pirate’s rum he wasn’t worried.

“Just drink it,” he whispered as he pulled her closer, his hand sliding down her arm in reassurance. 

“It’s not poison?” she asked eyeing her glass and his as though expecting it to start glowing.

He smirked, letting that devilish glint slip into his eyes. “Depends on your definition.”

She scowled at him but hesitantly brought the mug to her lips taking a small sip. A flicker of pride flashed through him, but instead of doing something he’d regret he turned to survey the crowd.

“There,” he murmured his eyes catching on a small group of men in the corner. There wasn’t much that set them apart from the rest of the patrons except the bottle of cider sitting on the table. It was a bitter and syrupy draft distilled a few miles from Glowerhaven and only palatable to those who had grown up with it, those who lived in the shadow of the Dark One’s castle: those who worked for that demon.

Emma stiffened beside him following his gaze, her knuckles whitening around her mug.

“You know,” he whispered to her his hand still resting just above her elbow, “I don’t think anyone is going to buy our cover if you keep standing stiffly nearly ten feet from me.”

She turned in his grasp the movement bringing her face close to his, allowing him to catch the scent of warm lavender on her. His eyes flickered involuntarily to her lips.

“What, Captain,” she purred at him, making his heart pound, “can’t stand the thought that someone might think I’m not tripping over myself to sleep with you?”

He leaned a fraction closer, accepting the challenge in her tone, “But they are supposed to think you would sleep with me, that’s the illusion.”

Her brows pulled down as she considered his words, and even as she worked through a response she swayed into him, her hand finding his arm. And she was better at this than he gave her credit.

“I thought the illusion was that I would sleep with them,” she gave a small nod toward the table in the corner.

“Hmm,” he murmured his gaze still caught on the curve of her lips, “but they won’t fall for it if they don’t suspect it’s an option.”

She leveled him with a questioning look and he leaned into her, his hand brushing back her hair until he could whisper in her ear. His breath on her skin making her shiver against him. 

“This is no time for the princess, the ladies here live by a different notion of comportment,” he told her.

She pulled back a little her eyes searching his, a new tension in the air. He wondered what sort of death sentence this sort of talk and scheme would have earned him in her homeland, in a world where she was still royalty. The rack? Drawn and quartered? Perhaps that was tame compared whatever he deserved for leading her into the dregs of Glowerhaven to get information to help her walk straight into the Dark One’s lair.

For a moment the full insanity of their ill-conceived plan seemed to press down on him. He chanced another discrete glance at the table in the corner and the men with greedy eyes like wolves. And was he really willing to drop her like helpless bait into that trap? 

“If it’s too much, we can find another way,” he told her.

For a moment he could see her considering it. Walking away. Not using that power within her. But determination that went deeper than the temptation of running had her straightening, and he was caught completely off guard as she slapped him hard across the cheek.

His hand flew to the burning skin as he watched dumbfounded as she huffed and turned away from him, the picture of a scorned tavern wench, and meandered her way through the other tables as though looking for another prospect.

He sipped the rest of his ale as slowly as he could all the while subtly watching as Emma finally settled at an empty chair at the table in the corner. He caught the way the others leaned in, the sound of her laugh at something said, sickeningly sweet and false.

And he heard the uproar from the table, the catcalls from the others as Emma at last snared one of the men and led him towards the stairs in the shadows at the back of the tavern. Killian took an extra swig of the ale.

He’d promised he would give her a ten minute head start but he found himself counting seconds in his head, and by the time he had made three minutes he was glancing to the stairs. Each second stretched forever taunting him. She would use her magic to get them answers, it was the plan they had agreed upon. And yet now, faced with the reality of waiting below imagining her plying the man with her charms, a man implicitly unworthy of her, it grated on him.

With one last look he confirmed that the rest of the group in the corner was now lounging around the table distracted by a couple of the tavern girls thanks to a few strategic silver coins.

He slipped away from the counter melting into the shadows and making his way to the short dim hallway that led off the landing at the top of the stairs, just a couple doors with small rooms to be used for clandestine dealings and rendezvous of a more intimate nature. A pull like hooks just beneath his ribs drew him to the door on the right and when he eased the door silently open he heard Emma’s voice beyond.

The room was lit only with a glowing embers of a spent fire in the small grate beside the door, but there was little of interest to see within the room in any case. A table with a few chairs and a sagging bed in the corner that was little more than a cot. And as soon as he entered he sensed more than perceived the shimmer of magic within the room, making the air heavy and thick to breathe.

But what caught his attention was Emma leaning gracefully against the table the pose accentuating the flare of her hips beneath her skirts, and before her sat the leader of the group from below.

The man’s gaze flicked from Emma to him as Killian flipped the lock on the door behind him.

“What’s this?” the man asked looking between the two of them. “Who the hell is he?”

Emma shot a warning glare over at Killian that froze him in place and he understood. He should hang back, he would only be a distraction to the man. So he leaned back against the wall crossing his arms.

Seeming satisfied with this Emma turned her gaze back to their target. “It’s just you and me,” she told the man pulling his eyes back to her.

“You and me,” the man repeated softly his attention once again solely on Emma.

“What is it you do for the Dark One?” she asked him her finger absently twisting the end of a golden lock of her hair.

The man followed the movement for a moment before answering, “I procure items of value for him.”

“What sort of items?”

The man hesitated for a moment. Emma’s expression softened the hint of a smile on her lips, it had its desired effect and the man answered the words stumbling as if he hadn’t quite decided to say them.

“Magical items... magical beings,” he told her before swallowing hard.

Emma’s brow furrowed, Killian’s own eyes narrowing. That was unexpected. What did the Dark One, the most powerful sorcerer in the realm, need with magical creatures?

“Nymphs, mermaids, sirens,” the man listed not noticing the way Emma’s eyes hardened, “fairies. He pays top dollar for fairies. There’s rumors he likes to pluck their wings.”

“And what does he do to the others?” Emma asked him.

The man shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s not my place, I just make the shipments.”

“Shipments,” Emma repeated looking faintly ill, but she blinked and it was gone, replaced instead with that inviting expression as she moved toward the man her hand finding the back of the chair over his shoulder. The new position placed the swell of her breasts over her corset just at the man’s level. And Hook wanted to roll his eyes at the predictability of his gender as the man’s gaze faltered at the sight. “What are you meant to be delivering this time?”

The man blinked, looking dazed as he swallowed again. His voice was thin this time as though the words were being pulled from him. “It’s a wolf, a werewolf. She’s young, not fully matured, not as valuable as others.”

This new information seemed to spur Emma on and the hair on Killian’s arms rose, his skin tingling in the wake of the pulse of magic that swept through the room as she bent the force of her persuasion on the man. Hook saw him pull in a shaking breath, his hands trembling slightly in his lap.

“Is the Dark One at his castle?” she pressed her words silky, smooth against the crackling of the magic laden air.

The tone made Hook’s gut clench, a tightness he tried to ignore. He took a deep breath as he watched her move closer still, sliding into the man’s lap, her hand brushing down the line of his throat and wandering down his chest. It drew a shudder from the man and his eyes widened as she wrapped her other arm around his shoulders her breath mixing with his.

“Is the Dark One in his castle?” she asked again.

He nodded slowly, his eyes rising at last to hers. “He almost never leaves now. The Dark One cares only now about finding ‘the one he created.’ Most figure he means the son he lost to another realm.”

“How many guards patrol his castle?” she pushed.

But again the man seemed to waver, some small part of him probably screaming at this betrayal of his duty, his men. And Killian felt the seductive graze of her magic again as Emma focused once more. It slid over him like a delicate finger tracing down his skin leaving fire in his veins.

The man grimaced, fighting her power: a vein at his temple pounding, a sheen of sweat breaking out over his forehead. Killian wanted to warn Emma she was pushing him too far too fast, but the words died in his throat as her lips brushed with the barest touch against her target’s as she spoke. Her tone like a secret between lovers.

“Guards?”

“Doesn’t need them,” the man croaked at once. “His magic keeps out enemies.”

Emma glanced over her shoulder at Killian and he quickly schooled his features into something closer to contemplation of the information than the stupefied way he had been staring.

But if he was being honest, he had been paying little attention to what the man had been saying. Distracted by the way Emma’s hand ran over the man, the look of desire clouding his eyes. Was that blackened desire so different than what he had felt whisper in his veins when he’d kissed her, when they’d danced. Was this warped charade so different than the one he and Emma were playing at? He tried to force back the sick feeling that maybe he had been wrong, and maybe he was just like this man, no different after all, used only for her benefit, just another fly caught in her perfectly spun trap. Watching Emma, the dark sorceress, it was a level beyond any myth repeated over ale late into the night: the siren and her prey.

“How many women have you sold to the Dark One?” she asked him firmly, the tone in the room shifting and grabbing Hook’s attention. This was not what they had planned to ask. They needed details about the security measures of the Dark One’s lair, needed to know the exact type of magic used and any weaknesses. Any chance at infiltrating and defeating the Dark One depended on it.

A flicker of something like fear surfaced among the yearning in the man’s eyes as though he could sense the change as well. “I don’t know,” he said a shake to the words.

From his angle Hook saw Emma tilt her head as she studied the man before her. A cat contemplating a helpless mouse. The fire in the corner spluttered throwing wild shadows over Emma’s face. And he saw a smile spread slowly over her features. A stunning smile, but it wasn’t love that glittered deep in her green eyes.

“How many?”

The man’s eyes flicked between Emma’s. And all Hook could do was watch rooted to the spot as she slid her hand down the man’s neck and across his shoulder to rest above his heart. And he swore he could hear the heart just beneath her fingers beating at an alarming tempo.

“I don’t know. I’ve lost count of the shipments,” the man said the words little more than an exhale. “They’re just beasts.”

Emma’s hand stayed over his heart as her smile faded. And as that smile faded all the warmth seemed to seep from the room. The shadows growing denser, the drafts from the window suddenly colder. The man’s breath puffed out in a small white cloud as though he were out in the depth of winter and not ten feet from the dying embers of the small fire in the grate. And his lips trembled, his teeth almost chattering as he looked up at Emma, terror now shining in his eyes. 

At last she bent, the time stretching, slowing, as she pressed her lips to the corner of the man’s lips. A chaste kiss, a farewell. The man’s eyes went wide and his breath stalled in his chest before he crumpled back and fell to the floor with a thud that echoed in the room.

For a moment Killian could only stare dumbly at the man’s body. It was with great effort he managed to take an unsteady step forward and kneel beside the man. His hand went out to the skin of his neck, finding it icy beneath his fingers and there was no press of a pulse. He turned to where Emma was standing impassively brushing dust from her skirts.

“What did you do?” he breathed. This was definitely not the plan. They had killed one of the Dark One’s men. His group would come looking for him. And when they found him here they would raise the alarm. Everything they had learned may as well have been for nothing as it would be useless by the time the managed to get to the Dark One’s castle.

“Let’s go,” she said calmly her voice like steel.

“What about him?” he asked gesturing again to the dead man on the floor.

She met his eyes and they were not the eyes he knew. There was no warmth or joy within them. They were empty, haunted, cold. They were the eyes of a monster.

“We need to go,” she said more firmly before turning on her heel and slipping neatly out the door.

Killian stood shakily, hearing her boots on the narrow stairs. And still he couldn’t follow, rooted to the spot. Unable to comprehend all of what had just happened. His eyes slid once again to the man lying dead on the floor, staring with open blank eyes at the buckling ceiling. Had it only been moments ago he’d been jealous of him?


End file.
